


Colors of Fódlan: Wandering Threads

by Linderosse



Series: Colors of Fódlan [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Bernadetta is Asexual, Canon Compliant, F/F, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Snapshots of their lives before Garreg Mach, Soulmates, Soulmates- Color AU, The Black Eagles students are wonderful and I love them, Very minor spoilers for Crimson Flower Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-01-22 17:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21305855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linderosse/pseuds/Linderosse
Summary: Linhardt and Bernadetta discuss an engagement.Caspar and Petra play a game.Ferdinand and Dorothea meet by a fountain.Hubert and Edelgard reunite.Four interwoven tales of four pairs of fates, each meeting for a moment in their colorful lives. No two of them are meant for each other. Yet each will mean something to the other when all eight gather for the first time.Part Two of the Colors of Fódlan series.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez & Petra Macneary, Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Edelgard von Hresvelg & Hubert von Vestra, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Ferdinand von Aegir & Dorothea Arnault, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Linhardt von Hevring & Bernadetta von Varley
Series: Colors of Fódlan [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536050
Comments: 38
Kudos: 299





	1. Translucent

I highly recommend reading [Part One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21085841) of the [Colors of Fódlan](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536050) series before this fic. I promise it's really short, and this fic will make a lot more sense if you read that one first.  
  
In any case, enjoy!

* * *

Linhardt von Hevring sips his tea as slowly as possible, savoring the taste. Contrary to his expectations, it’s quite delicious. He’ll have to ask his mother what type it is so that he can prepare it for himself later.

A girl named Bernadetta sits at the table across from him. Her hair is dull purple, as are her eyes, and her outfit is in a complementary shade of dull gold that Linhardt privately thinks is a little too ostentatious. She often glances at the slice of cake on her plate, but she looks too nervous to eat it. 

Linhardt knows that she knows why they’re both here, but the girl makes no move to start the conversation. That means _ Linhardt _has to start the conversation. Which is a pain, really.

“It’s nice to meet you,” begins Linhardt, in a monumental display of social effort so uncharacteristic of his usual personality that it shocks even Linhardt himself.

He waits a few seconds. There is no response from Bernadetta except a quiet squeak, so he continues.

“Bernadetta, there’s something in particular we’re supposed to discuss today.”

Still no response. Linhardt sighs, decides to take a leaf from his soulmate’s book, and gets right to the point.

“Bernadetta. Apparently your family would like us to get engaged. What are your thoughts on the matter?”

* * *

Caspar von Bergliez wishes he had someone to play with, because right now, he’s bored out of his mind. 

He’s kicking a ball aimlessly around the Bergliez estate fields when he sees an unfamiliar girl his age step outside the manor and take a seat on one of the benches. The girl’s long braid is fancy, and is also a really awesome shade of magenta, bright enough for Caspar to see from a distance.

A potential friend? Great! Caspar runs over and skids to a stop in front of her.

“Hey! D’you want to play a game with me?”

The girl doesn’t look annoyed, like Caspar’s big brother had been when Caspar asked him the same question about an hour ago. In fact, Caspar’s brother had been downright incensed— he'd screamed something about worthless younger siblings wasting his time, and then he’d kicked Caspar out of the manor.

This girl, though, just looks curious.

“...You are wanting me to play a game with you?” the girl repeats.

“Well, yeah! Like, uh, football, you know?” Caspar is mildly confused— the girl’s sentence sounds like it’s put together wrong or something. Is he just not smart enough to understand her speech pattern?

“One second and I will be joining,” the girl says. She shrugs off her fancy overcoat and Caspar is pleased to see that she’s wearing a short skirt that’s suitable for exercise underneath. The girl doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t look angry either. Just… focused. Weird.

“You must be teaching me the rules of football,” the girl says in a matter-of-fact way. “I am not knowing them already. But I am being very pleased to play with you.”

Well, that’s really all he needs to hear. Previous misgivings forgotten, Caspar grins.

“Great! Let’s begin!”

* * *

For the first time in quite a long time, Dorothea Arnault is grinning. Her smile stretches so wide she thinks her face might burst. She’s in shock. It’s a _ good _ kind of shock, though— the kind of shock that leaves you feeling a little tingly and sort of light. 

Dorothea has just been offered a position at an _ opera company. _ And not just _ any _ opera company— she’s been asked to join the _ Mittelfrank _Opera Company. She's getting the chance to sing with the famous musicians that she loves enough to hoard their posters and sneak into run-down alleyways behind heavily guarded buildings just to hear a faint strain of their melodies.

Most importantly, from now on, Dorothea Arnault is finally… someone. Not a nameless peasant anymore. She’s a person now, with an identity; a future.

Dorothea is suddenly hyper-aware of the dust and grime on her skin, remnants of her old life. Perhaps now that she’s a different person, she should physically wash away those psychological traces of her old, battered self?

The thought is strangely appealing, so Dorothea makes her way to the nearest public fountain. It’s late in the evening and no one else is around. The sky is shaded from light to dark gray, slowly fading in the middle to a section that’s just the right color of mauve for Dorothea to see it vividly. That specific color, her soulmate’s color, gives her hope.

She sits under the fountain’s spray and watches the water sparkle as it falls, glimmering silver-gray and purple as it reflects the sky above. As she combs her soaking wet hair with her fingers, she starts to sing the song that began her transformation into a new person— the one that got her noticed by her idol, and by the freaking _ Mittelfrank Opera Company. _She lets herself dream of a better future, where no one ever scorns her again.

Yet when she looks up from her singing, there is a strange boy in the alleyway staring right back at her. He’s clearly a noble, judging by his clothes.

And on his face is the most heart-wrenching expression of haughty disdain that Dorothea’s ever seen.

* * *

“Did you know _he’s_ back?” the guards say to each other, disdain evident in their hushed speech.

Who?

“He brought one of the children back with him, but she’s become so… different. Have you seen how she looks?” the chefs whisper to each other as the evening stew simmers.

Hubert doesn’t understand. Who are they talking about? And who’s the girl?

“They say he took all of them away somewhere and _ did _ something to them,” the maids gossip. “Saint Seiros’ blessings to the child who returned— to our little princess Edelgard.”

..._What?! _

Hubert’s heart stops. His book falls out of his numb hands. It lands on the table with a loud thump, might have even damaged the book’s spine, but Hubert isn’t paying attention— instead, he’s running, frantic, at a speed he never would have thought he could reach until this very moment.

The courtyard passes by in a flash. He takes the stairs two at a time, shoving surprised bystanders aside as he approaches the palace’s center. The people he runs past are all gray blurs to him, meaningless obstructions in his way. He rounds the last corner and scans the crowd in the main hall, gasping for breath. Where is she? His gaze moves inwards, to where supplicants stand to address the court, and—

There.

Her hair used to be brown, a warm color that Hubert could see faintly, perhaps because it qualified as a darker shade of orange. That touch of color was what had originally drawn him to her, before her natural charisma had secured him in her orbit.

But now she looks gaunt and emaciated. She stands in the center of the hall, outwardly stoic, but her hands are shaking ever so slightly. 

Her face is pale and drawn, and her hair is now _ white_.


	2. Multifaceted

Fear is painted across Bernadetta von Varley’s pale face as she sits in the tea-room of the heir to House Hevring. She tries to set that fear aside: she has no time for it; no time for anxiety.

The incident— the threat that is behind her fear— replays in her head as if it were happening in the present.

It is two days ago. She is in the Varley manor. Her father corners her in the hallway between the kitchens and her room, a hand falling heavy on her shoulder. Even that small, seemingly comforting gesture has Bernadetta flinching as she instinctively arches away from those hands and what they’re capable of.

“Bernadetta, you have _one_ chance,” he says, voice low. “I desire an alliance with House Hevring. With the Minister of the Interior on my side, my status would reach unprecedented levels.”

His hand clenches tighter on her shoulder and Bernadetta stiffens. No, she warns herself, don’t show your fear— whatever you do, don’t show your fear...!

“I will propose an engagement between you and their young son. If you do not do everything in your power to persuade the son that you are suitable for marriage… well, I hate to mention that gardener’s apprentice you have acquainted yourself with, but I can assure you that you won’t like what happens to him.”

A memory flashes in Bernadetta’s mind of that boy, her only friend, lying bruised and broken outside her room as Bernadetta tries her best to hide her sobs from her father.

Something like that… because of her mistake...

She can’t let that happen again. She _ has _ to get the Hevring family to accept this engagement.

And so, in the present, she sits at Linhardt von Hevring’s tea table, arms tucked beneath the countertop because her hands are shaking so hard that she can’t eat the delicious-looking slice of cake in front of her.

Linhardt says something, but the words turn to static fuzz in her brain. He’s asking her a question, maybe? Then he frowns. No! If he’s displeased, she’s lost her chance! She forces herself to snap back to attention.

“You know,” Linhardt says mildly, “I would expect any acquaintance of mine— and particularly a future wife— to be able to actually _ speak _to me.”

“S-sorry! Sorry, I was just- uh, zoning out. I apologize!”

Linhardt sighs. “I suppose I do that often myself, so I really can’t judge you for it. In any case, I asked for your thoughts on the matter of our engagement.”

“I…” 

In truth? She hates the thought of being forced to spend her life with someone she barely knows. Interacting with a fiancee sounds even _ more _ terrifying than normal forms of social contact. But she knows what she’s expected to say; what she _ has _to say.

“I think I’d like it. And, um…”

Besides, Bernadetta has a trump card— one powerful lie that only Bernadetta could act out believably— because Bernadetta has no soulmate, but she can _ already see every color_. Those hated shades that cloud her vision could actually tip the scales in her favor, just this once.

She’s more nervous than she’s ever been. She scrunches her eyes shut and half-shouts her lie in a frantic rush.

“...The only color I can see is blue. I— I think you might be my soulmate!”

* * *

Petra is looking up at the sky as the boy explains the rules of football to her. Her mother had said that the sky and the open ocean share the same color— called ‘blue.’ Petra has always wondered what that looks like to people who have their colors. Does the sky look different in Fodlan?

“...And that’s how you play!” the boy finishes, with a wild gesture for added emphasis.

Petra isn’t sure who exactly this kid is, but he’s been kind so far. Honestly, he reminds her of one of her cousins back home.

“I think I am understanding,” Petra says to him, tearing her gaze away from the heavens. “A similar game is being played in Brigid, but it is calling of ‘soccer.’ You are simply needing to kick the ball at the other… ah...”

What’s that word again? Spirits above, why is the language of Fodlan so hard to recall? Petra gestures to the ends of the field, where sticks have been set up to mark the boundaries, and hopes the boy will understand.

“...the goal, yeah.” completes the boy with a smile. “And remember, no matter what, you can’t use your hands. Got it?”

Petra nods gratefully, and they position themselves on opposite ends of the field with the ball resting on the grass between them.

“Okay. 3… 2… 1… start!”

And they’re off, sprinting towards the ball as fast as they can. The boy is fast, but Petra has been running through forests all her life and she _ knows _ she’s faster. She reaches the ball first, spins, kicks it diagonally forward, then dashes beside it. The boy yells something about how unfair her speed is, but he’s grinning as he chases after her.

This is… well… “_fun” _ is the only word Petra can use to describe it. The boy laughs as he manages to catch up and kicks the ball out from in front of her. Then he almost trips as Petra pivots and sticks her foot out to reclaim it. Petra’s got the advantage in height, reach, and speed, but the boy’s reflexes are quick and she’s a little surprised to see that he’s incredibly sharp— enough to effectively use his superior knowledge of this particular game against her. In essence, they’re evenly matched. Neither of them will go down without a fight.

She’s working up a sweat, using muscles she hasn’t in a long time, and she remembers hot, humid days in Brigid, kicking a ragged sack around through the lush verdant forest as her cousins jeer good-naturedly at each other and at her. She can almost imagine that she’s there right now.

She’s enjoying herself— she’s _smiling_— maybe even for the first time since she heard what happened to her father.

The boy has the ball, but Petra puts on a burst of speed. She dashes around to his side, drops low, and slides her foot across the ground, knocking the ball in the reverse direction. The boy yells and turns, but it’s too late— Petra’s already approaching the goal, and with a single swift kick—

She scores.

The boy groans and flops down in the center of the field, panting. Petra joins him.

It feels good to just lie in the faded green grass like this, gazing up at that peaceful gray sky that is apparently actually ‘blue.’ Petra’s heard from her mother that there’s also a beautiful difference between the shade of the sky during the daytime and at dawn. She wants to know what that would look like. Or at least hear about what it looks like from someone else.

Unfortunately for her, Petra’s mother lost her colors when Petra’s father died, and Petra’s grandfather lost his ages ago. None of her cousins had found their soulmates either— some of them didn’t even _ have _ soulmates, so they didn’t know what the world looked like _ without _ color. And then she’d left Brigid, so she’d never been able to get a proper explanation. What does it feel like to have a soulmate? What, really, is the shade of the sky?

“You win,” the boy says between gasps. “I was just going easy on you though. Normally, I’d beat you for sure.”

They lie there in silence for a bit longer before the boy lifts himself up on his elbows.

“Your hair’s really pretty,” he says. He sounds genuine.

“I appreciate your words,” Petra replies. “The… braiding is a practice from my country.”

The boy shakes his head and says, “No, not the braids.” He flushes slightly. “I mean— yes, I like your braids too. But I meant the color of your hair. It’s nice. Really warm, you know?”

Petra’s eyes widen, and the boy immediately realizes what he’s given away. He bites his lip and mumbles a mild curse as Petra sits up and faces him, questions tumbling from her mouth.

“Your soulmate is having this color of eyes? Or you are not having a soulmate? Or you are already finding…”

Caspar looks around, makes sure no one else is near them. Then he leans in close and whispers,

“Don’t tell anyone, but… yeah, it's the last one. I can see every color, 'cause I’ve already found my soulmate.”

* * *

“Where’s your soulmate now, bitch?” Ferdinand hears in the distance. This is followed by a thump and a whimper. He tenses. Is that— again…?

It’s almost sundown, and Ferdinand is standing in an empty street, a large bag slung over his shoulder. He’s on his way home after a grueling training session with his private instructor. Everything in him aches.

Just two seconds ago he had wanted nothing more than to rest. But those voices; that sound… Ferdinand hoists his bag higher across his shoulder and runs towards the altercation.

He turns the corner of an alleyway nearby to find three ruffians from the local gang huddled around something. That something is sobbing quietly, and the sound is all too familiar...

“Iri? Is that you? Are you alright?” Ferdinand calls out. The thudding noises stop. Ferdinand catches a glimpse of the young girl behind the ruffians as they shuffle around. It’s definitely Iri, though he can’t tell what state she’s in.

One of the ruffians spits in Iri’s direction. “This pissing _ noble’s _ your soulmate?” he asks her.

“Oi, look,” says another, scrutinizing Ferdinand. “Ain’t this the same guy that we beat the crap out of last time?”

“Gawd, it is! Look, his arm’s healed up an’ all, just so we c’n break it again.”

Ferdinand ignores them, takes a deep breath. He feels all lingering traces of fear fade away.

They may be right about what happened last time, but _ this _ time he’s ready. This time, he’ll _ win. _

Ferdinand hoists a training lance out of his bag and takes a firm stance in the alleyway. The ruffians come at him, and he parries, thrusts, and blocks as if this were a practice bout in the arena. Fighting, dodging, wielding his training lance, all of it feels natural to him, now that he has put so much time into practicing it.

He knocks them out cold, all three of them, in less than a minute.

Ferdinand tries to ignore the burning satisfaction he feels at having finally defeated them, and instead turns his focus to Iri. Her dress is torn and splattered with mud and dirt from the alleyway. Ferdinand notices that the dress is also light yellow, which happens to be the only color Ferdinand can see. What a strange coincidence.

“Hey, are you alright?” Ferdinand asks. He digs in his bag for a vulnerary and hands it to her. “Drink this. It should make you feel better for now, but it will not heal your injuries. Make sure to see a healer afterwards, okay?”

She drinks the vulnerary carefully, and he uses the time to survey the dark gray-yellow bruises and raised welts on her arm. If only he’d been faster...

“Th— thank you,” she whispers, finally.

“It is no trouble!” Ferdinand says, forcing himself to smile. “I came as soon as I heard you, Iri. After all, it is a noble’s duty to protect the commonfolk!”

She laughs at that, and Ferdinand helps her up and walks her home. She’s not a noble, but she isn’t poor either: she’s the only daughter of a family of wealthy textile merchants. No doubt the local gang was trying to get her to tell them the combination to her family’s safe.

Ferdinand waves goodbye to her as she takes the steps to her front door, but she hesitates at the top and mumbles a phrase with the word ‘soulmate’ in it.

“Sorry, did you say something?” Ferdinand asks, genuinely confused.

Iri scrunches her eyes shut, and in a slightly louder voice, says, “I wish _ you _were my soulmate, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand is stunned. By the time he’s recovered enough to be able to speak again, Iri has already shut the door and locked it, and Ferdinand still has absolutely no idea how he should react to that.

He decides to leave.

He pulls his bag tighter against his shoulder as he makes his way back home through the fading light. Would he want Iri as a soulmate? Surprisingly, the answer is no. In his dreams, his soulmate is dark and beautiful, vastly intelligent and able to stand up for themselves. In his dreams, his soulmate hardly needs him to protect them— instead, they’re by his side with a powerful will of their own.

As he walks past the fountain in the town square, he considers that he still has no idea who his other half is: the one person that will make him perfect. Perhaps it is unwise to have such high expectations of them…

There is a beautiful girl sitting by the fountain, singing with the voice of an angel. She looks composed and proper, even as water drips through her hair. Her diction and pronunciation are perfect, as is her tone when she sings, and confidence bursts from her voice as if without effort.

Just one look, and Ferdinand von Aegir hopes to all the deities he knows that this is his soulmate.

* * *

Edelgard von Hresvelg looks up at the citizens of Enbarr, keeping a carefully constructed mask of calm on her face. She is in court, and if she ever wants to get revenge for what has been done to her, she will need to keep up appearances.

Truthfully though, she can barely stand. She can feel herself shaking, and only the weight of the court’s gaze and her rage at the man behind her motivate her to keep up some semblance of control. She can’t falter now. And more importantly, she can’t show weakness in front of _ him. _

Because at her back stands _ the vile wretch _that forced her into all of this. Her vaunted uncle, the man she now despises more than anyone else in this cruel world. She doesn’t dare turn to look at him, but she knows the bastard has a cunning smile on his face.

“El, thank goodness you’re alright,” the emperor says. “Welcome back.”

Edelgard’s father sits on his throne with tired eyes and an honest smile, and the sight makes her heart hurt just a little bit. She’d missed him, and he’d missed her. But here at court, with half the city present, there is nothing more meaningful they can say to each other.

“I appreciate the concern, father, truly,” Edelgard says instead. “I am glad to return, and even more glad to see my people again.”

She stresses the phrase “_my people,_” and can almost feel her uncle’s smile freezing in place, boring a hole through her from behind. The crowd murmurs happily though. Good. She will need public support for her plans.

Her father gives her one last smile and, perhaps noticing how tired she is, turns to address his next comments to her uncle.

Seeing her father again saps her rage, which she cannot afford at the moment, so she turns her gaze to the man beside him. Count Vestra. Sinister prick that he is, he’d _ supported _ the experiments being conducted on her and her siblings. Her rage boils over again, holding her upright, but it’s weaker than before. _ She’s _ weaker than before. She can’t keep this up for much longer...

In the corner of her eye, she notices a figure dart out from the side entrance and scan the gallery frantically. She risks a glance to the side. Is that…!?

_ Hubert! _

A flood of tangled emotions fills her as they make eye contact for just one second. In the look on his face, she sees that all her concerns— that Hubert had forgotten her, or even worse, that he had _ agreed _with his father’s decisions— all of those dark worries were for naught.

In that one second she tries to communicate to him her tiredness, the need to maintain her public image, and the horrors that have been inflicted on her this past year. She can only hope that he will hear her silent request.

_ Help me, Hubert. Get me out of here. Please. _

As always, he understands.


	3. Opalescent

“...I think you might be my soulmate!” the girl says.

_What?_

Shock mingles with a spark of panic in Linhardt’s system that he quashes desperately. He doesn’t understand what’s going on. He’s already _ found _ his soulmate. If something went wrong… if he has somehow _ lost his bond with Caspar— _

No. There must be a mistake here.

He shows none of his inner turmoil on the surface; just breathes in and looks back at Bernadetta. 

“Blue is a common eye color.”

Bernadetta shakes her head, ducking to hide her face behind her mess of purple hair. “Your eyes look brighter to me than anyone else’s. It— it has to be you!”

He doesn’t believe her. Yet, now that he thinks about it… he’s heard that a few unfortunate souls are matched to people who don’t match them back. Could that be it?

“Only one way to find out,” Linhardt says. He covers his mouth with one hand to stifle a yawn, then stretches his other arm out lazily over the table.

“Take my hand.”

He sees a flash of fear in her eyes, then resignation and resolve. Resignation? That’s a bit strange, considering her words earlier. Their hands touch, and… nothing, for Linhardt. As expected. He can already see the full spectrum anyways.

But Bernadetta pauses. “Ah— everything looks different!” 

Her surprise seems genuine. However, anxiety flickers across her face, and she shows no excitement; no compulsive need to _ look _ at everything— in short, no behaviors that would corroborate her claim.

Linhardt raises an eyebrow. “That’s not how I’d expect you to react.”

The girl flinches, then rallies. “No, it really does look different! I— can, um, I can see colors now!”

“Then prove it. Nothing’s changed for me,” Linhardt says bluntly. He holds up something random: a teacup from the table.

“What color is this?”

He expects her to make something up, or act confused. What he _ doesn’t _expect is for her to give the correct answer without hesitation.

“Purple!”

How did she…? So she _ can _ see colors now. Was she telling the truth? Could she _ actually _have Linhardt as a soulmate?

Wait a moment. There’s a contradiction here.

“That’s correct...” Linhardt says.

Bernadetta looks relieved, but Linhardt isn’t done yet.

“...Yet now I’m even _ more _ confused. If you weren’t able to see colors before this exact moment, then how in the world did you identify the color by its _ name?” _

It takes a few seconds for the realization to dawn on her. When it does, her reaction, once again, isn’t anything like what Linhardt had expected. She doesn’t fly into a rage, or try to deny what she said, or play it off as a good guess.

Instead, she crumples into her chair and starts sobbing.

* * *

Caspar’s an idiot. He’s a total idiot. Oh man, oh man, oh man, Linhardt’s going to be _ furious _ with him. After all the trouble they went through to keep it a secret…

He accidentally told some girl that he can see colors.

“What is the ocean looking like?” the girl asks, eyes wide and curious. She looks like she’s trying her best to hold back excitement. “How is it feeling to have connecting with a soulmate? Are the sky changing colors with the day? What thinking was in your mind when you were seeing colors for the first time?”

Caspar blinks. _That’s _ the kind of stuff she wants to know? Nothing politically compromising, like _ who _ his soulmate is or something? Caspar might be an idiot but he’s not _ completely _ stupid. He knows that information about alliances made by his family could be worth a lot to the right kind of people. 

The girl is still tossing questions at him without a pause for breath. Caspar holds his hands up in mock surrender. 

“Whoa, okay, I’ll answer; slow down! But first, uh… Why are you here? Who are you?”

...He definitely could have phrased that better. Fortunately, the girl takes no offense.

“Duke Gerth is being my host in Fódlan. I am visiting this house because he is bringing me with him.”

“Your host… in Fódlan?” asks Caspar. “You’re not from around here?”

“Correct. I am Petra, a… warrior of Brigid.”

Caspar’s eyes light up. “_Brigid? _That’s so cool! My dad went there once— he didn’t say much about it, but from what I know it sounds amazing.”

“It is a warm and wonderful place,” the girl— Petra— says fondly. “I can be telling you more later. However, you must be answering my questions first, please.”

“Sure. In return though, you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone I can see colors, okay?” Caspar frowns at the grass; starts picking at it. “At least, not until I can convince my soulmate that he should be more open about this. He’s usually really smart, but in this case he’s worrying about consequences that are never gonna happen.”

“I am promising,” Petra says, and then looks at Caspar expectantly.

Caspar sighs. “Listen, I’m not good with words, okay? But it’s like… um, wait. What color _ can _ you see?”

“Dark green,” Petra says.

Caspar immediately pictures Linhardt’s hair, tied up with the repurposed ribbon Caspar gave him all those years ago. He shakes his head a bit to clear his mind.

“Right. So, um, the ocean is sometimes dark green-ish, but you already know that. I think it’s actually a mix of green and this other color called blue, which is like a darker version of the sky...”

Caspar is pretty sure he’s doing a terrible job of describing this stuff, but Petra looks fascinated. They talk more about colors, then about soulmates. Caspar is more than happy to discuss his bond— after all, this is the first time he’s been able to do so with someone other than Linhardt. Eventually, Caspar asks Petra how Fodlan compares to Brigid.

“I am meaning no offense,” Petra says with a rueful smile, “but here, the trees are seeming only pale and still. The forests of Brigid are having so much green color— so much life within them, and movement, and secrets.”

“Wow. Brigid sounds like a _ great _ place for an adventure,” Caspar says wistfully. “Maybe if my dad goes there again, I can get him to take me.”

“Your father is going to Brigid often?” Petra sounds a bit excited by the prospect.

Caspar shakes his head. “Nah. Like I said, he’s only been there once. But he’s the Minister of War, so he might have to travel there again.”

Petra blinks, and her head tilts in confusion, like she’s trying to recall something.

“...Your father is being the Minister of War of Fódlan?” she asks.

Does she really not know who Caspar is? She was willing to play with him, and _ not _ just because his father and brother are influential? That’s… really nice of her! Caspar grins. Even if she talks weird, Petra from Brigid is starting to feel like a great friend.

“Not _ all _of Fódlan,” Caspar clarifies. “But yeah. My father’s Count Bergliez, the Adrestian Minister of War, and I’m Caspar von Bergliez, his second son. Probably should have introduced myself earlier, sorry— but better late than never, right?”

He looks up to find that Petra’s face has gone white behind her tan skin. She’s staring at him as if he’s a ghost, or, or— a murderer or something.

“Hey? Uh, Petra?” Caspar’s grin slips off his face. Did he screw up somehow?

Petra stands, and without even pausing to say goodbye, turns and runs back towards the manor. 

“What? Hey, wait! Petra!”

Caspar scrambles to his feet and dashes after her, but he knows he started too late. By the time he’s halfway across the field, the door is shut behind her.

“Petra! I’m sorry? What’d I do wrong!?”

But there is no response.

* * *

There’s a strange boy, definitely a noble, standing in the alley in front of the fountain.

Dorothea puts her comb down and stops singing. That gaze of his… that blank expression of disdain, as if she’s so beneath his notice that he can’t be _ bothered _ to be angry… that look perfectly illustrates why she hates nobles. 

She throws the boy her most ferocious glare.

“What do you _ want?”_

No response. The boy just continues staring at her with that distant, haughty gaze. He’s holding a weapon in his hand: some kind of a lance, like the town soldiers use. 

“Look, I don’t know who you are—” she begins, but before she can even finish the sentence, he’s already turned away and skittered off, back around the corner of the alley he came from.

Where did he run off to in such a hurry? Maybe… maybe filthy commoners like her aren’t allowed to touch the public fountains, and he’s gone to report her. Maybe he noticed the cute flower earrings the opera company gave her, and thought she stole them. Or maybe... well, the other kids used to tell stories about nobles who capture girls and lock them away on a whim. It’s unlikely, but what if that boy was working for one of those types…?

She shivers. Is it just her, or does the water in the fountain suddenly feel colder?

In any case, she really doesn’t feel like staying here anymore. Dorothea dries herself off in a flash, tosses all her belongings into her sack, and yanks the string shut so hard it almost breaks. Then she runs.

She decides to throw off pursuit by taking a longer route back to her living space— after all, you can never be too cautious when there are nobles searching for you. In fact, one of the town gates is relatively close… perhaps she could leave and re-enter the town through a different gate. That way, she can be sure that she’s lost anyone who might be tailing her.

It’s almost night as Dorothea approaches the town wall. She’s looking up at the sky, which has darkened enough that she can no longer see the band of her soulmate’s color in the heavens. She walks across the road to the gate—

“Hey, watch out!”

A horse-drawn carriage hurtles down the road, straight at the open gates, and the local gatekeeper’s frantic warning is all that saves her from being run over. She leaps out of the way just in time, then spins to watch the opulent carriage disappear into the night.

“That was a close one!” The gatekeeper strides over and pulls her the rest of the way out of the road. He looks young. “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

A grizzled soldier standing by the watchtower chuckles kindly at the gatekeeper’s worry. “She’s fine, kid,” the soldier says. “Stop ogling her and keep your eyes on the gate if you want to be considered for that promotion.”

“Yes, sir!” shouts the young gatekeeper with unexpected enthusiasm. He turns from her, his face contorted with pure determination, and continues staring out the gates.

The dedication evident on the gatekeeper’s face is enough to make Dorothea smile. She opens her mouth to thank him—

“Hey, wait a minute,” the soldier says. He’s looking at Dorothea more closely, eyes narrowed. “Long hair, short dress, flower earrings… Doesn’t this girl fit the description Ferdinand gave us?”

Dorothea freezes. What? Is ‘Ferdinand’ the boy from earlier? So he _ did _ report her! But what infraction did he report her _ for—_

No, it doesn’t matter what offense he claimed. She knows full well that nobles will use any excuse to clear the streets of rubbish like her. She can’t afford to be locked away for something inconsequential; especially not now that she’s gotten an offer to sing with the company of her dreams!

For the second time today, Dorothea turns and runs.

By the time she’s made it back to her place, she’s exhausted, and her ordeals are swirling through her head on repeat. She could still be caught and jailed if they find her...

No! Why is she still thinking about that! This is the best day of her life! She's going to be a singer for the Mittelfrank Opera Company! Once she joins the company, there’s nothing they can do!

She tries on a smile. Yet somehow, immediately, that noble boy’s disdainful expression flashes in front of her eyes, and her smile disintegrates. That look on his face seemed to promise that no matter how successful she gets, no matter how hard she tries, she’ll never be anything more than a dirty commoner.

When Dorothea agrees to join the Mittelfrank Opera Company early the next morning, her savior and idol is kind enough not to mention the tear tracks on her face.

* * *

_ Get me out of here, Hubert. Please! _

As always, Edelgard’s wish is his command.

Hubert strides out onto the court floor, stands opposite his detestable father, and waits for the politically proper moment to interject. 

“My lord emperor, forgive the interruption,” Hubert says when his chance comes. His voice is quiet but pitched to carry. “I would be honored to show Milady around the castle while you converse here. I am sure she would love to see how it has changed while she has been away.”

The court murmurs around them.

“I don’t believe that will be necessary—” begins Edelgard’s uncle, the smile dripping from his face.

“Foolish boy—” begins Hubert’s father, getting ready to rise from his chair.

“Of course you may!” the emperor says, loud enough to cut off the other two. “Dearest El, do feel free to take a tour of the castle. Let me know what you think when you’re done.”

Hubert watches with thinly disguised relief as Edelgard nods and curtsies, then follows him into a side entrance. He closes the door behind them, cutting off the sounds of the crowd, then turns back to his charge.

Edelgard is shivering visibly. She stumbles, and Hubert is at her side in an instant to steady her.

“Milady? Are you alright?”

“No,” Edelgard says, somewhat sardonically. Another worry frees itself from Hubert’s chest— after all this time, at least _ that _hasn’t changed. She’s still a contrarian to the core.

“Can you walk?” he asks, discreetly checking her over for visible injuries. “I'll take you straight to your rooms, of course.”

“Wait. I must—” Before she can finish the sentence, she begins coughing insistently. Her legs tremble, then give way beneath her, and this time she isn’t able to recover her balance and she falls.

Hubert makes a quiet noise of surprise and steps in to catch her, holding her upright in his arms. She's far too light and still shivering uncontrollably, and when Hubert puts a hand to her forehead it feels warmer than it should be.

“You’re unwell…!” Hubert mutters. “Wait one moment; I’ll summon an attendant to—”

“No!” Edelgard clutches at Hubert’s arms. “No. I can’t show any signs of weakness! Not if I want people to support me. They are looking for a firm ruler. _ That _ is what I will become.”

There’s a fire in her eyes that wasn’t there before, and Hubert is… enthralled.

He reformulates his plan in a flash. “Then you will need to be seen walking through the castle and talking to its occupants. I'll take you by the shortest route possible, and to _ my _ room, as it is closer than yours, but _ you _will need to keep up the act. Can you do that?”

“I can,” she says between coughs. “I can, and I will. Just… give me a minute.”

Her breathing is ragged and she is still leaning on Hubert. He shifts to support her more securely and waits for her to catch her breath. The expression on her face, the scratches on her skin… what _ happened _to her?

True to her word, once a minute has passed, Edelgard stands up straight and puts on her mask of calm. She’s _ mastered _that expression. Only the slightest of tremors are visible at the edges of that peaceful facade.

“Show no weakness...” she breathes. “I can do that. I’m ready.”

They begin their trek. For appearances’ sake, Hubert directs her attention to relevant differences in the castle, while Edelgard takes every opportunity to chat with curious onlookers, charming them with her patient gaze and eloquent speech. Once or twice, her hand brushes Hubert’s elbow, and Hubert reads the seemingly inconsequential gesture for the signal it is— offers an excuse and leads Edelgard away to the next area.

They make it to Hubert’s room without incident.

“No signs of weakness?” Edelgard asks, once the door has been closed behind them.

“None at all, milady,” Hubert says.

“Good,” Edelgard mutters, and without further warning, she collapses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm actually done writing the final part as well-- I've just got to polish it up a bit, and then I'll post that too.


	4. Captivating

Bernadetta is sobbing in Linhardt von Hevring’s tea-room, because her plan has failed and she has only herself to blame. When her father finds out… the thought of what might happen to the gardener’s apprentice— she hopes against hope that he was able to escape Varley territory, because if not…!

All Bernadetta had needed to do was answer Linhardt’s question correctly. It was just a simple question. Just _ one _ question! And she screwed it up, like she does with _ everything _ she tries. Why does she have to be so _ stupid? _Why can’t she do anything right? What’s _ wrong _with her?

She’s breathing in gasps now, and it feels as if her throat is constricting. A panic attack? _ Now,_ of all times? No, no, she can’t let herself— she has to keep it together because if her father finds her like this… Yet that very thought causes her panic to scale uncontrollably; her heart is racing, she’s suffocating, she can’t—!

“Hey. Look at me.” A voice cuts through the fog around her.

She looks at him. Linhardt. Of course, who else would it be? 

“Good,” Linhardt says. His voice is oddly soothing. “I’m not going to touch you unless you want me to. Got it? Okay, now take a deep breath in. Like this.”

She follows him as he coaches her through breathing again— and a fresh round of tears bursts from her as she thinks of how pathetic she is to need help from a near stranger on something as simple as _ breathing _ properly.

When she feels relatively normal again, she nods to Linhardt and wipes her eyes. He returns to his seat, and only now does she notice that he’d gotten up and moved around the table to kneel next to her.

She starts tearing up again. “I— I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to— I—!”

Linhardt gives her a knowing look; speaks in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s fine. I’ve had panic attacks before as well. I simply tried to help you the same way my— I mean, the same way someone I know helps me.”

Bernadetta sniffs and considers the implications of that last sentence. And, well, Linhardt knew the color of that teacup, didn’t he? She puts two and two together. 

“The person who helps you: they're your soulmate, aren't they? You've found your soulmate already.”

Linhardt startles. “I suppose I’ve revealed too much...” He lets out a huff of breath. “...but you’re right. I know who my soulmate is. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Who is it?” Bernadetta asks. She feels twice as foolish now. Her plan never would have worked. 

“Well,” Linhardt says, tapping his finger on the table. “I’m hardly to be expected to divulge all my secrets when _ you _ haven’t revealed any of _ yours_. You must have found your soulmate as well, since you can see colors. But if that were all, your family wouldn’t be trying to marry you off to _ me. _ So what is it? Do you hate your soulmate? Does your family hate them?”

Bernadetta shakes her head in answer, and… oh, it would be so freeing to finally tell someone…

So she does. She explains everything: her shameful ability to see colors without a soulmate, her father’s threats, her friend in the village. Linhardt listens without interrupting.

Once she’s done, he rests his chin on one hand and frowns.

“I think there are two solutions to the problem of your father threatening your friend. They're not perfect, but they’re the best I can come up with at the moment.”

Wait... he’s already thought of _ solutions?_ She’d just been venting! Bernadetta nods at him anxiously to continue.

Linhardt holds up one finger. “Solution One, which you may not like. You run away from home. Without you there to be threatened, your father has no reason to hurt your friend.”

“W— what!?” Bernadetta squeaks. “I don’t want to run away! I— I don’t know anything about living in— I would die—!”

“I know,” says Linhardt, cutting her off. “I don’t think you should do that. But it _ is _the best way to ensure your friend’s safety. The second solution is less sure to work.”

Linhardt holds up two fingers this time. “Which brings me to Solution Two.” He pauses; a split second of hesitation. “I tell my parents the truth: that I found my soulmate ages ago. I’ll have to deal with my parents’ scorn, but in return, _my parents_ will call off the engagement. Since _you _did everything in your power to pursue this alliance, you have upheld your word to your father, and he has no reason to punish your friend.”

Bernadetta gets ready to reject the idea on impulse, but then stops and considers it. She’s figured out by now that her father’s not the type to enjoy others’ pain. He only hurts people— or hurts _ her_— if he thinks there’s a reason for it.

“What do you think?” Linhardt asks.

“That... could work,” she admits. “But… wouldn’t it be rough for you? You’d have to give away your secret...”

Linhardt waves his hand at her lazily. “It’s fine. My soulmate’s been trying to convince me to share this for a very long time now. He’ll be happy that I’m finally doing so. And my parents— see, neither of them ever found their soulmate, so they married each other instead. As a result, they don’t trust the whole soulmate system. They’ll have some difficulty coming to terms with the fact that I prefer to ‘blindly follow my fate’ instead of standing against it. Though I suppose I’d have to tell them at some point anyways. Might as well do it now.”

“Thank you,” Bernadetta whispers. She’s on the verge of tears again.

“Don’t thank me: it might not work,” Linhardt says bluntly. He takes a sip of his tea, which Bernadetta is sure has gone cold by this point. 

“In any case,” he continues. “I believe it’s time for you to go. Feel free to take your slice of cake with you.”

Oh yeah, the cake! She’d forgotten all about it in her panic. Bernadetta hastily stuffs a spoonful of the dessert into her mouth. It tastes just as wonderful as it looks, so she picks up the plate on her way to the door.

“By the way... “ Linhardt says. Bernadetta stops and turns to listen.

“I’m also going to tell my parents to talk to your mother about this... situation you have going on with your father. Running away from home might not be an option, but there _ are _other ways you can escape.”

“Like.. like what?” A strange mix of hope and fear rises within her.

“Like, say, a boarding school. My soulmate and I will be attending one. You’d be eligible too, if you applied.”

Her fear spikes, overriding the hope. “Ah... I— I don’t think I could…!” That sounds just as terrifying as running away! She’d have to live in a far away place and talk to other people…

“Well, you should at least consider it.” Linhardt says. Then he yawns. “Meanwhile, I think I’ll take a nap. See you.”

He flops over immediately and starts snoring, which gets a smile out of Bernadetta. Linhardt is really weird, but… maybe not so bad of a guy.

As she closes the door behind her, Bernadetta can’t help but recall the one strange occurrence that she didn’t tell Linhardt about.

It’s true that she’d always been able to see colors. Yet when she had touched Linhardt, her vision _ had _ shifted just a bit. From the moment their hands met, the color blue has been shining brighter in Bernadetta’s view. It’s as if there was some fog or mist clouding her sight all this time, and now that it's gone, everything in blue looks more… normal.

Is she missing other parts of her sight as well? But that would mean something, wouldn't it? It would mean there are people out there for her. People she can bring herself to trust. Could that be true?

She doesn't know.

Nevertheless, Bernadetta walks down the stairs of the Hevring mansion with a spark of hope lodged firmly in her chest.

* * *

Petra slams the door to the manor shut behind her, heedless of the loud thud it makes. She feels cold, like shock has drained all the life from her. That boy’s words resound in her head, bounce back and forth across her skull.

“...My father is Count Bergliez, the Minister of War…”

“..._Count Bergliez, the_ _Minister of War…”_

That is the name. She knows that name very, very well, because one day, when she was eleven years old, she was told who killed her father, and That. Is. The. Name.”

She forces herself to slacken her death grip on her hunting knife, then goes looking for Duke Gerth. He’s in the foyer, reading a book, although she can’t make out the title on the spine. Probably something political.

“Ah, Petra, there you are. I saw you playing in the side yard with the second son— what’s his name again? Jasper?”

“Caspar.” she says. “Caspar von _ Bergliez_.” Her anger is beginning to freeze inside her, like a shard of ice in her chest. 

“Right. Of course,” Duke Gerth says, with a kind smile that would normally put her at ease. “Were you having fun?”

_ I was, _ she thinks, _ before I knew his accursed name_. _ I thought he could be my _ friend_. _Her rage freezes even further, even sharper, the icicle digging into her heart.

“Were you knowing of his father’s actions?” Petra asks quietly, ignoring Duke Gerth’s previous comments.

Now he notices the coldness in her voice. He frowns, confused. “I’m sorry, was there something I should be aware of?”

_ Count Bergliez killed my father! _ Petra wants to scream. She wants to shout it out so loud that even Count Bergliez himself, who could _ very well be somewhere in this manor right now, _can hear her.

Then she wants to go find the man and _ make him pay. _

But what good would that do? She can’t just go around stabbing people; not if she wants to return to Brigid alive. Count Bergliez could send her to jail or to the execution stand with a word, and she’s definitely not strong enough to survive a fight with the general, let alone all of Adrestia’s armies. She’d be throwing her life away.

Besides, Duke Gerth is not a bad person, and Petra doesn’t want to cause trouble for him if she can help it.

She shakes her head; reigns in her frozen anger. “I am wanting to leave now,” is all she says.

Duke Gerth knows better than to question her further when she doesn’t want to be questioned. He gestures to the carriage outside the door.

“After you.”

As their carriage rattles down the town’s cobblestone roads, Duke Gerth closes his book and turns to her.

“Petra— a moment, please. You will recall that you inquired about receiving education here in Fódlan?”

Petra nods.

“Well, it seems you’re eligible for a seat at the Officer’s Academy. As you’ve heard, it’s our nation’s premier educational institution— and most likely the best way for you to spend your time during your... ah, extended visit to our country.”

Veiled references to her status as a hostage aside, that actually sounds interesting.

“Besides,” Duke Gerth continues, “you’ll have the chance to meet other children your age— some of the most influential children in the country, in fact. Why, even your new friend Caspar might be there.”

New friend? _ Caspar? _ Definitely not, considering who his father is! 

Yet... she can’t help but recall how nice he had been, how he’d done his best to answer her questions, and, most peculiarly, the passion in his voice when he’d talked about his soulmate.

“Sometimes, I can almost… feel what my soulmate is feeling,” Caspar had said, his fingers pulling absentmindedly at the grass. “It’s really rare. Only when he’s feeling something really strong. But at those times… well, sometimes it’s painful, but mostly it’s amazing. You asked what it’s like, to know who your soulmate is, right? It’s like that. Sometimes painful, but mostly amazing.”

And then Caspar had smiled like he hadn’t a care in the world. What a strange boy. She wants so badly to hate him, but—

The carriage goes over a bump and Petra is jolted out of her thoughts.

“Would you like me to enroll you in the Officer’s Academy, Petra? Take as much time as you’d like to decide,” Duke Gerth says kindly.

Right there, in a carriage trundling away from the Bergliez estate, Petra makes a snap decision. She needs to meet more people, needs to broaden her worldview. There are too many perspectives out there that she doesn’t understand. And perhaps... a soulmate of her own will be waiting for her in the world outside of Brigid.

“In truth, I am not needing time to decide,” Petra says.

She nods, determined. “Please be enrolling me in this academy, Duke Gerth. I think I will be liking it greatly.”

* * *

Ferdinand’s staring. He knows it, but he just can’t help himself, because the girl in front of him…! His mouth is agape, and he probably looks really stupid, but his mind is whirling and he just doesn’t have the capacity to compose himself. Does he know her? Has he seen her before? Which noble house is she from? Perhaps she’s visiting from somewhere else? And where in the name of Seiros did she learn to sing like that?

The girl stops singing and puts her comb down. Then she says something, but Ferdinand isn’t listening because a thought just emerged from the storm of his emotions: What if this girl is his soulmate? He can’t see her eyes from this distance. Should he get closer? 

Should he talk to her?

He opens his mouth to do so, but to his chagrin, nothing comes out. He’s too nervous to speak. 

That makes him blush, which is even more embarrassing— he’s supposed to be an exemplary noble, and he’s quite sure that exemplary nobles don’t just stare blankly and blush at pretty girls who sing well.

So he retreats; ducks back around the corner of the alley he came from.

Ferdinand falls back against the wall, trying his best to compose himself. That’s right, he can do this! After all, he is Ferdinand von Aegir! He just defeated three older boys from the village gang without even breaking a sweat, and saved Iri as well! Surely he can do something as simple as talking to a girl!

Oh wait, he’s still holding his training lance. That’s a problem. Ferdinand stuffs it into his bag and takes a deep breath. Then he spins to face the fountain, but...

The girl is gone.

What! Has he missed his chance?

He runs up to the fountain. Her satchel is gone as well— and if she took her belongings, she’s probably not planning on returning. But he never got the chance to say anything to her, or even to check her eye color! If her eyes are yellow-gold, then maybe she’s…!

“You’re rushing, boy,” Ferdinand can almost hear the soldiers’ voices, like he’s heard in the training yard so many times. “Don’t just throw yourself headlong into an endeavor. Stop and think first.”

The soldiers he trains with are always telling him that. His private instructor does as well. Stop and think, Ferdinand, they say, over and over again. Well, a true noble would accept criticism and better themselves, wouldn’t they? 

So Ferdinand stops and thinks. The girl was pretty, with long dark hair. She was about his age. Although her outfit was commonplace, she had very fancy earrings on, so she’s probably a noble. Yet, Ferdinand hasn’t seen her before, so… perhaps she’s not from around here? Maybe, whenever she leaves, she’ll exit through the closest gate, the West Gate? Some of the soldiers who train with Ferdinand go on duty there sometimes— maybe they can help him out.

Ferdinand is tired, and he’s expected at home by dark, but his father probably won’t notice if he’s late. If the girl is his soulmate, it would be worth it to get to meet her. Even if she isn’t, Ferdinand just _ knows _that they could be great friends.

He jogs down the main street to the West Gate, and makes it there while the sky is still light. A small, thin band of the sky shines pale yellow, his soulmate’s color, and that gives him hope.

“Hey, look, it’s Ferdinand!”

Ferdinand smiles. Seems like he knows the soldier on duty today.

“Hello, Sergeant!” Ferdinand calls out, slightly out of breath, and they salute each other, because though they’re both nobles, Ferdinand’s family is of much higher rank.

“You’ve already finished your training for today, kid,” the sergeant says with a smile. “Your instructor said you left the yard ages ago. Why’re you back?”

Ferdinand adjusts his bag over his shoulder. “Ah, you see…”

He tells the sergeant about the pretty girl by the fountain, stumbling over his words as he explains himself. By the time he’s finished, the sergeant is grinning smugly.

“Well, well, well… looks like little Ferdinand’s gone and gotten himself a crush!”

Ferdinand blushes. Ugh, he shouldn’t have come here; shouldn’t have told the sergeant about this…

“Hah, don’t worry kid,” the sergeant says, not unkindly. “I’ve been in your shoes before. I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Greetings, sir! Reporting for duty!” a younger soldier makes his way towards them from inside the guard tower. He salutes the sergeant briskly and moves to stand by the gate. Then he frowns, confused. “Wait, sir: Did you say you’d be keeping an eye out for something?”

The sergeant’s smirk widens and he gestures at Ferdinand. “Ferdinand here has a crush on some girl. Out of the goodness of my heart, I’m helping him look for her.”

The young soldier at the gate grins. “A worthy cause! I’ll do my best to help as well!”

If Ferdinand blushes any harder, his face is going to explode. He’s about to pout at the sergeant, but then he considers that that might not be very noble-like. Instead, he decides to take the comment at face value. It’s a very noble thing to give thanks, isn’t it?

“Thank you both,” Ferdinand says honestly. “I... appreciate that you are helping me out.”

The Sergeant’s grin softens. “Not a problem, kid. But you’d better head home soon. It’s getting dark, and your father won’t be pleased if you get home so late.”

“To tell you the truth, Sergeant,” Ferdinand says with a shrug, “I do not think my father will notice.”

For some reason, that makes the sergeant look sad. Why? Ferdinand doesn’t know, but he’d prefer the sergeant not look that sad so he decides to keep talking.

“...but you are right! I must get my rest if I am to improve in my training. I will return home. Farewell, sergeant!”

The sergeant claps him on the shoulder. “See you, kid. Keep practicing. Maybe someday, you’ll be able to beat me in a match.”

Ferdinand treks home alone in the dark. He’s thoroughly exhausted now, and the bag on his shoulder feels like it weighs three times as much as it should. Which means he needs to train more! Something like this shouldn’t be a problem for him.

Besides, he’ll need to be much stronger if he wants to become a proper noble. Ferdinand knows he can do it. He has his whole career planned, his path laid out in front of him. He’ll train with his private instructor, and then fight alongside the town soldiers for a while, and then, if he gets accepted, he’ll attend the famous Officer’s Academy at Garreg Mach and learn from the Knights of Seiros themselves! Then he’ll succeed his father as Prime Minister, and then…

And then he’ll be able to stop people from getting hurt. Like Iri, and everyone else in the Adrestian empire who isn’t strong enough to fight for themselves. Maybe he’ll find his soulmate along the way, and the two of them will put an end to all the evil in the world and make it so that everyone is safe.

After all, defending commoners is a noble’s job!

* * *

Edelgard wakes up to find herself lying on a bed, still in Hubert’s room. Hubert must have moved her onto the mattress while she was unconscious. She coughs, and Hubert glances over. An instant of worry flashes across his face before he schools his expression back into calculated calm.

“Would you like something to drink, milady?” He turns away, presumably to search the cupboards for a suitable beverage.

She lets herself think about it. “Do you have tea?”

Hubert grimaces. “I’d have to leave you and go to the kitchens to prepare it. If you will recall my dislike…”

Edelgard smiles. Of course. How could she have forgotten? All the small details of her old life are coming back to her.

“Well then, whatever you have here is fine.”

Hubert frowns thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, ‘what I have here’ is mostly coffee, which I hesitate to offer you considering your health at the moment. ... What about hot chocolate, milady?”

“Hot… chocolate?” Should she know what that is?

“It’s a warm, sweet beverage from Dagda. I bought a packet of it on a whim some time ago.”

It sounds oddly delicious. “Hm. Alright.”

There is companionable silence for a minute or two as Hubert prepares the drink. While she waits, Edelgard burrows under the sheets of the bed. The blankets smell like home, and a little bit like Hubert: books and coffee and ozone and ink. She pulls the covers up to her shoulders and wraps herself in them completely.

She feels small, all of a sudden.

“Hubert?” she whispers.

“Yes, milady?”

She takes a deep breath. “Thank you. For helping me hold myself together today. For saving me from the court. I’ve been locked away for a while, but I’m— I’m so glad you didn’t forget me.”

Edelgard can see, even from here, that Hubert’s grip on the stirring spoon goes white-knuckled.

“Milady, I could never forget you,” he says. His voice sounds a bit choked, and Edelgard smiles. Hubert, getting emotional? She never thought she’d see the day. Nevertheless, the sentiment is incredibly touching.

“I know that now, Hubert. But in that place, without light or colors, it was so hard to remember.”

Hubert finishes preparing the drink and brings it to her. She shuffles upright to hold on to it and takes a sip. Warmth fills her. Her predictions were correct. It _ is _ delicious.

Hubert steps away from the bed, hands clasped behind his back.

“What place, Milady?” he asks, guarded as if against a blow. “Where have you been?”

Edelgard looks him in the eye and tells him everything.

She finishes her tale at around the same time she finishes her drink. She doesn’t want to focus on the memory, so she focuses on the drink instead. Hot chocolate, was it called? It’s warm and soothing, and reminds her of better times. In fact, so does the blanket wrapped around her. And so does the only person she trusts, standing rigid in front of her, eyes wide as he processes what she’s telling him.

She looks down at her cup, and a drop of something splashes into it, diluting what’s left of the hot chocolate.

“Milady! You’re… crying.”

A sob escapes her, and then another. She curls into herself on the bed. She tries to stifle the sobs; claps a hand over her mouth, but she can do nothing about the tears streaming relentlessly down her face. Curse… curse this _ weakness_; why must she always succumb to… she needs to be stronger than this!

“Milady—” Hubert says, reaching down towards her, and, no, Edelgard knows that words of comfort right now would truly break her—

“I don’t need your _ pity_,” Edelgard snarls. Shame washes over her immediately. Hubert, of all people, doesn’t deserve to be treated like that.

Yet Hubert isn’t offended. He smirks.

“I wouldn’t dream of offering you pity, Milady. I was only going to take your mug, since you’ve finished the hot chocolate.” He pulls the mug out of her hand and sets it on the counter in the back. Then he slides his chair out from his desk, sits down, picks up a surprisingly crumpled book— strange, Hubert never treats books like that— and begins reading. The nonchalance, the fact that he doesn’t seem to mind that she’s sobbing on his bed…

It’s exactly what she needs.

The sobs start again, and this time she doesn’t reign in the storm of emotions raging inside her. She cries for what feels like hours, drowning in despair, yet relishing this time to herself, this space she can use to wash away her sorrow with tears. At this moment, in this room, she doesn’t have to be strong. She lets everything out.

“I’ll crush them,” she mutters, when she’s wiped away her tears and composed herself again. “I’ll crush this whole, revolting system.”

Hubert’s chair scrapes on the stone floor as he turns to look at her. His face is expressionless.

“Not now. Not yet.” Edelgard amends. “I don’t have the— the power yet. But I will someday. I— I’ve planned this out. All of it. I’ve had more than enough time to think about it, this last year. I’ll join the Officer’s Academy at Garreg Mach. Get close to them, to their heart. And then, when I’ve earned their trust… When that day comes, I’ll change the _ world_, Hubert.”

She coughs, then takes in a gasp of breath. The air feels new. Looking around, there’s no colors in sight, no blue or green, just dull gray walls and furniture. It seems clean. Sharp and fresh like a new beginning. She spent so long in that godforsaken place— and where were the dark blue and the pale green when she needed them? Not with her; never with her. She needs no soulmate to support her. The colors mean nothing. She is _ her own person_.

“Hubert?” Her question turns into a command. “Stop calling me ‘Milady.’ Call me by my name. I need to remember who I am. You must not let me forget.”

He takes a moment to consider it, then smiles and bows from his seat. “Yes, Lady Edelgard.”

“Thank you, Hubert.”

She pulls the blankets off; stands up on shaky legs. She’s staring past the stone gray walls at a future without the oh-so-vaunted bloodlines, without corrupted noble lineages, without those accursed Crests and all they represent. She will make it to that future on her own. She will claw that path wide open with her own two hands if she has to.

“I am Edelgard,” she says, almost as if testing out the words. It’s a proclamation to herself, to Hubert; to the rest of the world.

“I am Edelgard, the only survivor. I am Edelgard, future ruler of the Adrestian Empire.”

She lived. The crown will fit. She will _ make _ it fit.

“I am Edelgard von Hresvelg," she declares, "and I won’t rely on _ anyone_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Thank you to everyone who's kept up with the story to this point! And a special thanks to those of you who have left me a comment! I really love hearing your thoughts, questions, and ideas. I try my best to respond to everyone. Please continue to let me know what you think!
> 
> I've got many plans for a sequel set in the Officer's Academy. I might write and post it if there's enough demand and if I feel like it's in a state to be published. You can probably tell that I was setting up for that sequel in this last chapter :).
> 
> Anyways, have a great day, and thanks again for reading!


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